Sherlock in the Modern World working title
by TritonAuthor24
Summary: How a Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson - in keeping with their characterizations provided by Doyle, could work as Britons in the modern-day, in America. Please provide suggestions. Just seeing if it works.
1. Chapter 1: A NoMeaning Existence

This story is a prototype of how people would respond to a Sherlock Holmes in a modern day setting, in America. I have taken a few liberties, but I deemed them neccessary to be able to, later on, show the true nature of Holmes as Doyle meant him to be seen: calculating, manic-depressive, drug addict, deductive genius, etc. I hate how all the previous interpretations of the novels/stories have not been able to capture everything of his character. I feel that the modern world gives the character enough room to flourish all his character faults, flaws, and positives. Please review and provide suggestions for any changes you might want or anything you might want to see.

Chapter One

A No-Meaning Existence

Circa October the 2nd, 2002

People oft tell me I belong in a different century than the one to which I live in. But it's funny, because all I want is normality and yet here I am, readying myself to explain the very extraordinary life's work of the most, er, _memorable_ man I've ever met.

Circa February 2001 – Somewhere in the Afghani Mountains

What the hell I was doing there, in the throes of a fierce territorial war, I still do not know. I was a medic for lord's sake. I wished to heal people, not see them die on my table in the M*A*S*H.

Fire came at us from all sides - us being myself and the two soldiers who were assigned to me after the evacuation of the infirmary.

'Damn,' I thought to myself, realizing the contents of my medkit, 'I should've brought the good drugs.'

"Let's go," the commanding soldier said, lifting me off my feet with one hand and in just as swift a movement, tossing my exhausted and anemic body upon a larger, thicker boulder.

We were now halfway up a mountain's backside, surrounded by a minion of stones and boulders, each four feet tall at the least, guarding our position like the faithful sentinels stationed faithfully upon Buckingham's gates, ready to die for Queen and Country. The bullets bounced off the rocky soldiers we now slumped behind.

A cry is heard. Dear Lord, don't let it be one of ours. And yet, it is. Looking out, I spot the hurt soldier, lying upon the gravel as parallel as possible to the heated ground. He shrieked in pain.

A born hero, I instinctively move to help, but the secondary soldier – the commander too busy attending to the duty of returning fire – slams me hard. "Don't," he says. "Okay? You go out there you'll be as dead as him. Wars end all heroes."

Now I have no idea who this man is or what his morals may be, but whether I am a hero or whether the war shall end me is something I am unawares of, but am altogether willing to risk for the safe return of a fellow patriot.

"Then at the least," I retort, "I'll get my ticket home."

With such a reply, I'm off into the midst of gunfire, a syringe between my teeth, examining the number of gunshots, both entrance and exit wounds. It is at this moment that a swift gusty sound is heard and a sting is felt upon the side of my left leg. I turn to see a bullet protruding out from the muscle just before I feel it. Now the syringe seems much more appetizing. Upon hindsight, I feel guilt over the lack of debate I had with myself as the decision was made to self-apply the injection of narcotics. I can kid myself all I want that I knew not what would happen to my patient, but I knew. I knew even then as I fell to the ground.

Circa October 2002 – JFK International Airport

I slink against the cushioned seat of the plane, duffel upon my lap. I can feel my leg throbbing, itching to hurt. The nerves flare and it's like nothing I've felt before. White-hot pain, as they say – and they're right – like a poker placed within the muscle. And there's nothing I can do – no meds, massage or surgeries make it subside.

Circa March 2003 – Somewhere deep in Manhattan

I love this country. Upon first being dragged here by my father at the irascible age of eleven, I thought him a fool. Now, however, I see what he was getting at. It's not that we don't love London, by all means it is still the greatest city in the world, however I do have a place for this country in my heart as well.

I have since moved back in with my parents in Long Island, nursing my still hurt leg. I have also taken up the great sport of binge drinking. Yes, at the time I had become an amateur drunk, hell if there was an alcoholics' Olympics, I would take the bronze. Give me another six months had I not stopped, and the gold would for sure have been mine.

But I did stop, because as I walked out of the pub in Manhattan, one of thousands probably, a truck barreled down the road. One would think it would have seen me in time and stopped without any sensational antics. But only with a dramatic swerve was it able to keep me from harm's way. However the driver, a father of seven – yes, seven (six male, one baby girl) – had to be hospitalized for eleven months, followed by what ended up being four years of physical therapy and a lifetime of stress therapy.

I paid for his medical bills, not just because the judge had demanded it, but because I felt obligated. Surprisingly, the judicial system isn't all that kind to war veterans. Even bastardly ones. Especially bastardly ones.

Present Day – Los Angeles

I needed an out. So I got one. I packed my bags, filed them into my father's old red Chevy pickup, and drove out to Los Angeles, the City of Angels… and of murder, and of gangs, and of drugs and sultry, easy celebrity bombshells. Little did I know, it was also the home of a recently-relocated fellow Briton who would become my dearest friend and me his.

I spent the first two days at a Holiday Inn, then, upon a one-night stand with a brunette drunk named Melanie, lived with her for seventeen weeks. Sixteen of which I should add she spent cheating on me with guy after guy in bar after bar. But I didn't care, because I had a place to live. I simply consider myself lucky to not have gotten an STD, for Lord knows she had them. Ha, how that makes me laugh now. How it worried me then.

I left after making the shocking discovery she had been selling my possessions (and here I thought we were routinely robbed!) to each bang buddy as a parting gift. Back at the Holiday Inn, I saw an ad in the Los Angeles Times for a man requesting a roommate. He only asked that the man be willing to deal with strange hours and the playing of instruments.

I copied down the address – 221B Baker Street in the San Fernando Valley and was off the next day. Off to meet my destiny.


	2. Chapter 2: A Study in Sherlock

Chapter Two

A Study in Sherlock

I knocked thrice upon the door and stood back. "Just a moment," said a voice from within the apartment. This was no ordinary man's voice. I could tell that at once. It had a certain vigor and flair to it. It was a deep timbre, yet quick, wasting absolutely no valuable microsecond in singing the words. They were spoken like an expert dealer dispenses cards.

The door opened and I found myself looking out at the back of a man's head as he walked away, returning to whatever he had been doing. "Welcome," he said. "This is my home, 221B as you clearly saw to the left of the door. If you didn't, I have no time for you, so please, be honest and leave."

He scribbled upon a scrap of paper on his clutter of a desk. He went and retrieved a book from his overstuffed bookcases which lined the living room. From the small cracks in between, I could see that the color of the wall was a dark beige.

The man didn't even seem to register I was there. What the hell? I cleared my throat as loudly as I could. He turned quickly, _snapped_ would be a better description.

"Ah, yes, you're still here, are you? What's your name, doctor?"

'Doctor?' I thought. 'How the hell does he know I'm a doctor?' I voiced this question. The man scoffed.

"It's quite simple, and rather meaningless. Your prescription pad is hanging out your side pocket. It might interest you to know it's out of date. I doubt you are unaware of that fact. You haven't practiced in quite some time. Please tell me you don't carry round that pad for sentiment, for I've no time for people such as that."

I ignore his questioning. He's right, of course, but why give anyone so arrogant the satisfaction? "What's your name?"

"Sherlock Holmes. And yours?"

"Dr. John Watson."

"Well, Watson, tell me, did you sign up immediately following 9/11?"

"Excuse me?"

"You served in Afghanistan as a medic. The tattoos upon your left forearm are of the army. Do you know what they say? Poor words about the Taliban, I'm afraid. And given that you're a doctor, it's not a stretch at all to arrive at medic. Sent home because of that leg problem? What was it? Injured in a roadside bomb?"

"Hollow point bullet to the thigh muscle; developed necrosis afterwards. Surgery left me with a neurological pain disorder called—"

"--Complex Regional Pain Syndrome, or more commonly CRPS: In laymen's terms, the nervous system is hijacked by pain. A wild deduction, I admit, but you are not the first I've seen befallen by it."

"You are a doctor as well?" I asked. I had known the man not five minutes and already he astounded me.

Holmes laughed quite loudly. "No, no, no. Clearly you ask because in your mind – a mind of a collegian and doctor – no man can be as smart as I am without having such degrees. I teach myself. Saves time and the energy dealing with moronic teachers."

"You're an ass, I hope you know," I said truthfully.

"Oh, I know," Holmes said. He looked at me. He had piercing eyes and a thin nose that reminded me of a hawk. He was taller than me and far slimmer with a large forehead and mop of brown hair. "You've bothered me long enough. Do you want to stay? If so, there's a key on the piano. Get out and come back tonight with your things. If not, then get out. Either way, piss off."

I was back. Oh, I was back. The man intrigued me. He accepted me as his roommate and was very gracious when not busy at work. I'm sure the only reason he tolerated me pestering him with questions in the beginning is because I paid my rent.

It was the Thursday after I moved in when a knock came upon the door. Holmes was lazy as hell and did not move. "Who's there?" was all he bothered to do.

"Carrus," said a grave voice from behind the door.

It was amazing. Holmes had tossed down his $500,000 Stradivarius and practically ran to the door. He opened it and I saw what living in L.A. and New York had taught me was a junkie. "D'you have it?" Holmes asked.

Carrus handed over a large package wrapped in brown packing paper. "Nineteen 8-balls, just like you asked."

Holmes grabbed the package and dropped it to the ground. He pried it open and pulled out a small baggie. He popped open the baggie, dipped his hand in, and put it in his mouth, as if brushing his teeth. After a moment, he smiled. "Some good stuff here, Carrus. You did well this time."

"I always do good," Carrus said. Holmes pulled out his wallet and withdrew a large wad of cash and handed it over. "Next time'll be double."

"'Scuse me?"

"Hey, man's gotta make some sorta livin'. New president ain't so worried bout the terrists no more. Feds started comin' back on cracking down our backs again. Losing customers cause they 'fraid to get caught. No one wants to kick it in Chino, man."

"What's not to like?" Holmes asked, his words dripping in sarcasm. "Drop the soap and get a surprise when you go to get it."

"Do we got a deal or what?"

"Yeah, yeah, go away."

Holmes slammed the door. "Who was that?" I asked.

"Delivery," Holmes said. "Now shut the hell up. If I want your comments, believe me I won't want them."

It was then I discovered my new roommate, as smart as he was, was a junkie. Coke was clearly his preference, but I had seen him do heroin at least twice. I didn't understand. He sat around the house doing nothing. He was clearly bored, but why. Didn't he have a job? He watched COPS and Judge Judy and recorded an ungodly number of hours of shows documenting real-life murder cases. At night, he played the violin, occasionally the piano, and once or twice flamenco guitar.

Two months in, I discovered what Sherlock Holmes did for a living. When the police pulled up outside our apartment complex, I thought for sure he would be caught with possession. My first clue should have been that it was not a squad car but a detective's car which pulled up.

Five minutes later, I was introduced to Detectives Lestrade and Gregson of the LAPD. They had brought Holmes a murder to solve. "You're a PI?" I asked with obvious enthusiasm.

"Consultant, dear Watson."

He read through the file in ten minutes and handed it back to them exclaiming it was the husband's brother who did it.

"Fellas, I had hoped you would bring me a case of interest. This is just plain boring."

"If you're looking to be entertained, go get yourself a lapdance," Lestrade said.

Holmes laughed. "I've had one too many of those in my life. Besides, I'm looking for a more intellectual stimulation."

"What's a matter? Bad crop of coke?"

"No, you kidding? The coke's fantastic, but there's only so much drugs can do for you." I couldn't believe how freely he discussed his illegal drug habit with two LAPD detectives. Unbelievable and yet, I said nothing till after they left.

"Won't they arrest you for possession?"

"What? Watson don't say dumb things. I've solved more cases than all the detectives on the force combined. They won't throw me a possession charge for a little bit of coke. A blind eyes goes a much longer way."

"That's a bit dishonest."

"Oh, Watson, everyone has a price. Know that."

"You're very depressing, Sherlock-"

"No, I'm very depressed. There's a difference. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll return to my strumming."

"Crazed lunatic," I mumbled. Sherlock turned, not angry, but curious.

"What did you say? I'm a lunatic?"

"You sit around the house all day. Anybody would call that languid and insane!"

Holmes – well fed on his cocaine habit – stares at me just before breaking into hearty laughter. "Bored people are not insane, Watson. However, morons on the other hand…" he let his voice trail away.

With that, he swept into the lounge, where I knew he would chain-smoke two packs of cigarettes while reading up on this and that academia which he so loved to self-teach.

The next two days Holmes spent pacing up and down the house, restless as hell. In between paces, he would lounge around leisurely, drowsing in and out and enjoying the fine crop of cocaine he had purchased.

It was at eleven o'clock on the night of the second day that I finally saw him do something I would deem productive. After a call from Lestrade (I know, for I answered the phone), he had thrown on a baseball cap and suit jacket and knocked upon my door. I was in my pajamas and reading the latest Stephen King.

"Watson, come with! Throw on some clothes."

I'm not sure why I did go with, but I'm glad I did. It was the first adventure of those that I would never forget.


	3. Chapter 3: There's a dead man there

Chapter 3

"There's a dead man there"

Holmes never drove his own car. We had to take mine. No, not the beat up Chevrolet, but the used one I had shared with and eventually stole from my ex. It was a 2003 Toyota Camry, a somewhat simple horseless carriage, but all the same, it drove.

We pulled up to the address Holmes had neglected to write down (or meant not to, rather, since his photographic memory was all the writing he needed). Inside was a bloody and brutal murder.

Upon the floor lay a man who looked no more harmful than a fly, a man who couldn't possibly have hurt a soul. Of course, he might not have, seeing as he was the dead one. Holmes walked in, greeted Det. Lestrade and Gregson, and surmised the scene.

"There's a dead man there," I said rather stupidly. While Lestrade gave me a look akin to how one might look at a bird that had just flown into an exceptionally cleaned window. "Very observant, Watson," Holmes said in stride. "Often the most obvious goes overlooked. Think of it."

"Don't touch anything, Holmes," Lestrade said, a caution in his voice. "CSI hasn't gotten here yet. Speaking of that, get them on the radio, find out an ETA."

One of the surrounding officers ran off, carrying out the orders. Lestrade moved towards Holmes. Now while I'm no great shakes at observation and deduction like my new friend, by their movements together, I surmised they had been consulting on cases together for a while, something I intended to find out if I was right about.

"The name is Eli Drew According to his birth certificate, he's 34 years old and from Detroit. Now the weird part is, from what we can tell, there're no bruising or stab wounds, certainly no gunshot wounds. Smart money's on poisoning, but hell if I know."

"Yes, hell if you know anything, Lestrade. Look here," Holmes gestured to the floor directly beside the deceased. "There's dust everywhere else, but for this thin strip that carries on but is stopped right by the body."

While Sherlock Holmes examined the body and wowed the surrounding officers with his powers of observation, I did some observing of my own. The house was poorly lit, just another urban slum of East Los Angeles. The only furniture was a blue bean bag chair facing the television, and six fold-ups encircling the dining room table, which was a camping table in poor shape.

"Over here," Lestrade called. While I had been looking round the room, he had moved along to the kitchen, or just near it, for he had been stopped by something on the wall. Eerily placed along the wall in blood red letters were the words 'Crib Death' scrawled out in tagging letters very much like the graffiti all over the city. "Looks like gang mark-ups. Well what a surprise! Los Angeles has yet another gang-related homicide."

"No," Holmes said, moving towards the wall with magnifier in hand. "I've never known a gang to publicize a murder, nor would they mark it such as it is." He spent five minutes at the least examining the written words then turned back.

"Holmes, CSI's going to be here soon, at which point we'll have forensics and ballistics on all this. You're little magnifying glass isn't going to tell us anything we won't know soon enough."

"There is something to be said for old-school detecting. The man you're looking for is six feet tall, maybe six-one. The rest, I'll let forensics figure out for you. See who comes up shorter in the end. I'll see you. Come Watson."

On the way home, I asked Holmes what he thought had happened. "I'm not going to guess, Watson! Never make guesses, they cloud your judgment later on. It comes from mankind's desperate need to be right about everything.

It was weird, to hear Sherlock Holmes talk disapprovingly of people wanting to be right as he almost always was.


End file.
